Page 17 of The Summer I Destroyed You

But now they’re trying to take that away too.

The meeting about Lucas Hall is held inside Lucas Hall, which is sort of like enjoying a delicious glass of your cow’s milk while you decide whether or not to slaughter that same cow—and there are plenty of people here who want to slaughter her.

Locals haven’t seen the writing on the wall. They really think a bunch of rich tourists are going to put Knits R Us or Smiths Insect Control on the map when it should be clear to them that this is not going to happen. Tiny, home-grown businesses don’t thrive when tourists come to town—they get run out by the conglomerates who’ve finally seen dollar signs. How long is Mountain Brew Coffee going to survive when some coffee chain moves in across the street with the power of a multimillion-dollar ad campaign behind them? Not long.

I’ve done my best to explain this at previous council discussions, but no one’s listening. I’d thought I could restore Lucas Hall myself, turn her into a hotel to satisfy the locals while preserving our history, but the bank has shot that plan to hell. All I can do now is appeal to people’s common sense, so I’ve lost before I’ve even begun.

The meeting’s being called to order when Emerson Hughes swans in, wearing a tiny suit and sky-high heels, shooting a megawatt smile at the mayor as if she’s his most honored guest.

What’s even more annoying is that he smiles back. I’m not sure what our octogenarian mayor thinks Emerson’s offering—money, prestige, blow jobs?—but it’s pretty fucking clear he’s saying yes to it.

“Miss Hughes,” he says, rising. “Welcome. I believe you wanted to do a little presentation?”

She blushes like a hopeful beauty pageant contestant, smiling shyly at its most important judge. “Really?” she asks. “It’s okay?”

“Of course, of course,” he says, beckoning her to the smart board. “Hook up your whatsit to the whosit here. I have no idea how these things work.”

“There’s an agenda,” I bark, and Emerson slowly turns to me. Her smile holds. In fact, she looks pleased by my outburst.

“I’m sorry,” she says, ever so sweetly. “It’s…Mr. Doherty, yes? If you’d like to go first, that’s just fine. I’m in no rush.”

Everyone in the room is looking at me like I’m Scrooge. As if Emerson fucking Hughes just wants to give the town everything inside her generous little heart, and I’m the mean old crank who doesn’t know how to love.

“I’m in no rush either,” I reply between my teeth. “I’m just pointing out that there’s an agenda, and presentations are at the end.”

“I’m sorry.” She offers the mayor a deeply apologetic smile. “I definitely wasn’t trying to jump ahead.”

The mayor frowns at me. This lovely young girl is so wonderful that she’s apologizing for my mistake, that frown says. A mistake pointed out by that jackass near the front. What’s his name again?

“I’ll just take a seat next to Mr. Doherty,” she says, repeating my name in case he missed it, “and wait until everyone’s ready.”

“Pleased with yourself?” I grunt as she slides in beside me. Smug pleasure radiates from her pores.

“Exceedingly,” she replies under her breath. As she sits, her skirt rides up, perilously close to her panties. I force my gaze elsewhere.

The secretary reads the minutes from the last meeting, where it seems almost nothing of import occurred. When she’s done, the mayor glances my way. “Hopefully that was sufficient, Mr. Doherty?” he asks, before summarizing the purpose of the day’s meeting, reminding everyone about the mysterious state inspection of Lucas Hall last winter that revealed some serious safety issues—flaws the town cannot afford to repair.

Interesting, the way the building was randomly inspected this past winter, when it wasn’t due for inspection. Just, you know, a random goddamn inspection of a building barely anyone knows exists.

“As we cannot afford the repairs, we’re now opening the floor to other proposals for the land. I assume you’d like to begin, Mr. Doherty?”

Jesus fucking Christ. I’m here to save the town, Emerson’s undoubtedly here to destroy it, yet somehow, I’m already the bad guy.

“Ladies first,” I snap.

Emerson rises and walks to the front of the room, smiling at the mayor and town council before she turns to offer that same demure smile to the rest of us. She is the epitome of earnest, good intention. Her laptop connects instantly, and an image of the town, circa 1910, flashes on the screen. I suspect she was in the building for hours getting set up and that last-minute entrance was simply for added drama—so that every man she passed got a good look at her ass and every woman could admire her expensive suit and glossy hair.

“Hi. I’m Emerson Hughes with Inspired Building. I see some new faces today, and several familiar ones as well.” She stops here to grin at the mayor as if he’s her father. Or boyfriend. “I was actually born and raised right here, so I want to make something clear before I begin: Inspired Building does not want to change all the things that make Elliott Springs so magical. Our town has a long, proud history. It has the warmth of a tight-knit community. The small-town values everyone in this room cherishes. These things matter to us too. That’s why we’ve been working quietly in the background to preserve Elliott Springs’ past while we bring it into a new century.”

They’re turning a hardware store that’s been around since the 1800s into a spin studio. How exactly is that preserving the past?

“Our new grocery store,” she says as if I’ve asked the question aloud, “is going to bring the modern conveniences of an upscale grocer to Elliott Springs while never forgetting where it began.” The pictures that flash past show smiling cashiers in old-timey aprons, hand-drawn placards announcing fish of the day and fresh-baked pies, a woman biking with a wicker basket full of flowers.

I’d like to see someone attempt to bike down our cobblestone streets.

“Our new bookstore and theater open this summer to become the heart of a thriving intellectual community while offering visitors and residents alike a taste of the town’s past.” The images on the screen go to a suffragette protest, a woman being helped out of a Model T. I’ve got no fucking clue what that has to do with a bookstore or a theater, but I appear to be the only one in the room questioning it. These fucking idiots are ready to give her a standing ovation.

“But these businesses can’t exist in a vacuum. In order to support the sort of shops and restaurants and experiences that Elliott Springs residents deserve, there needs to be the customer base. That’s where the Homes of Lucas Hall comes in.”

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